


giving you all my (giving you all my love)

by ragesyndrome



Series: safehouse [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Communication, First Kiss, Gratuitous use of italics, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved, and then just so much kissing, idk how to tag, they gotta talk about trauma babey!!, this is rlly soft theyre just stupid in love guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragesyndrome/pseuds/ragesyndrome
Summary: "Yesterday he had hurled himself into the Lonely without a second thought, because Martin was in there and had needed him. Today, he’s insecure about Martin not wanting to drink tea that he made."[EDIT: Yall the response to this has been INSANE ily guys, I am working on a companion piece for this now thank u for inspiring me <33]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: safehouse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988704
Comments: 78
Kudos: 504





	giving you all my (giving you all my love)

**Author's Note:**

> cw:  
> \- vague mention of past trauma  
> \- some degree of touch-repulsion  
> \- tooth rotting fluff  
> \- american author
> 
> title from "heavenly" by cigarettes after sex  
> unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine

They had shared the bed, in the end. It would have felt deeply stupid not to, Jon came  _ so _ close to insisting he take the couch and Martin the bed but, then, he’d nearly collapsed in exhaustion in the doorway. Martin had just  _ looked  _ at him, that way he does sometimes with a bitchy little eyebrow like he doesn’t even have to verbally say all the ways Jon is being ridiculous right now, and yeah, he knows.

So Jon crawled into the bed first, taking the side pressed against the wall, and with solid wood on one side of him and Martin on the other, he feels something that almost resembles  _ safe _ .

It’s a tense hour or so, both of them too tired to make small talk and  _ far _ too tired for any  _ real _ talk. Martin’s careful not to touch him, and at first, that hurts, until Jon’s adjusting the blankets at one point and his hand brushes Martin’s shoulder and Martin  _ visibly _ relaxes for a second. It finally occurs to Jon that they have both deluded themselves into thinking the other wants the space.

In the darkness he reaches, tentatively and giving Martin time to adjust away from him without making things too awkward, if that’s what he wants. If Martin wants to save face he will let him, he knows he’s already pushed him so much recently. But Martin doesn’t, only watches Jon’s hand and flexes his own fingers subconsciously, and the air is almost static for a second until Jon covers Martin’s fingers with his own.

It shouldn’t have been so novel. They’d held hands nearly the entire day, the long train ride from London - they’d been holding hands since leaving the Lonely, since Jon had reached for Martin’s grey and distant face and begged him to come back, to see him.

But that had been then, in mortal peril and then on the run, on the move and it just made sense to hold onto each other so as not to get lost, and this…  _ this. _ They were sharing a bed. They were  _ in bed together _ and it was  _ dark _ and Jon was holding Martin’s  _ hand _ . What an excellent way to die.

He regrets that thought immediately, it’s all too real a possibility and he doesn’t want to romanticize such a thing, not after his own coma, not after nearly losing Martin.

Sleep comes difficult to Jon these days, but out here, so many miles away from London, he thinks he might actually manage it. Martin falls asleep first, and Jon watches. He feels a bit creepy about it, if he’s being honest, but he can’t muster the energy to feel properly weird - they’re on the run and sharing a bed and  _ holding hands _ and yeah, Jon watches him breathe, and it settles something inside him. He loves him. He’s known for some time now, and is aware that he probably felt it a long time even before that. Martin’s chest rises and falls, and his curls bounce as he adjusts his position and Jon is  _ in love _ , and what an insane situation that is to be in when the world might literally end.

He thinks he won’t even mind if he can’t sleep, it’s restful enough just to watch Martin, until suddenly Jon’s eyes open in the morning light and yes, he had slept a bit. Martin is still asleep for those few moments, his arm slung over Jon’s hip and Jon’s hand rested against his, and they are much closer than they had been some hours earlier. At this distance, even without his glasses Jon can take in the details, the exact color of the freckles smattered across Martin’s nose, the fine lashes casting shadows under his eyes. He can smell both of them, that warm sleep smell that nearly coaxes him back to unconsciousness, until Martin adjusts and then blinks his eyes open, unfocused for a long moment before settling on Jon.

He doesn’t have time to act like he’s asleep, nor to contemplate why that’s the first thought that crosses his mind; Martin sees him, and seems to wake fully very quickly, taking in their situation. To his credit, he manages to make it look casual as he extricates himself from Jon’s arms, rolling from the bed with a soft “G’morning” before padding away to the bathroom.

Jon rolls onto his back with a deep exhale, staring up at the ceiling. The cottage ceiling is criss-crossed by exposed beams, for a brief second reminding Jon of a spiderweb. He shakes the thought away. Ridiculous. He just got caught staring at the love of his life and now he thinks wooden beams look like webs. He needs some tea.

They hadn’t had time yesterday to shop for much, had only grabbed a few items to hold them over for a day or two, not knowing exactly what situation was waiting for them in Daisy’s kitchen. It was a good thing they had, too, because a selection of canned soups aside, the cupboards were bare. Jon puts the kettle on, sets out two mugs and the black tea Martin had picked out. They had milk but had not picked up sugar, which didn’t matter much right now because Jon was making the tea and it wouldn’t be to Martin’s standards anyway. He just felt the need to  _ do _ something, some gesture to reach across whatever divide had split the way between them, because all of yesterday hadn’t been enough to undo the entire last year. They were reaching and trying, now, he knew that. But after everything, he was still  _ so _ afraid. Yesterday he had hurled himself into the Lonely without a second thought, because Martin was in there and had needed him. Today, he’s insecure about Martin not wanting to drink tea that he made.

The kettle sings and Jon turns off the flame, makes the tea to the best of his ability and gives it an extra stir like that’ll fix things. Martin wanders into the kitchen then, still blinking sleepily before his eyes widen in surprise.

“I tried,” says Jon apologetically, holding a mug out to him.

“Oh, heh, thank you.” Martin takes it carefully, fingers brushing Jon’s as he does - and for a second, Jon is four years younger, he’s just been thrust into a job he has no idea how to handle, and this assistant, gorgeous  _ yes _ but still  _ incompetent _ , makes him tea every day and their fingertips just slide against each other and Jon makes some clipped remark about getting back to work because holy  _ fuck _ he needs to  _ concentrate _ -

He blinks, back in Scotland, and Martin isn’t his incompetent assistant anymore (never really was that useless to begin with, and Jon feels plenty of guilt about all of  _ that _ ), and he looks back at Jon with a little smile as he tries his tea.

“It’s not bad,” Martin blatantly lies.

“Shut up,” Jon grumbles, then worries that maybe he shouldn’t say that, and willfully softens his tone. “I was thinking we could pop down to the store later, grab a few more things. Some sugar. Maybe you can teach me the right way to make this.”

Martin hums in agreement at that, then tilts his head, contemplating something. Jon can only watch as he puts his mug down on the counter, with some careful consideration, like he’s coming to a decision. Takes Jon’s own mug from his hands and sets that down too, enters Jon’s space like crossing an invisible threshold, reaching for Jon’s face.

And Jon, against every desire in his body, flinches.

There was no way to hide it, and Martin freezes, some fog coming back to his eyes for a moment as he hesitates, and Jon’s about to reassure him when suddenly he finds himself crying. His eyes sting sharply and he’s about to run, about to mumble something stupid  _ sorry something in my eye I’ll be right back _ but Martin is still in his space, and it gives Jon just the second he needs to think. To take his glasses off and feebly set them down behind him, to rub at his eyes. To feel the counter solidly against his back and Martin solidly in front of him, and yeah, Martin would move and let him run from the room if he tried to, but he doesn’t  _ want  _ to.

He had flinched and it had been terrible and all the guilt chokes him now, because he  _ loves _ and  _ trusts _ and feels so  _ safe _ with Martin.

“I’m sorry,” Martin’s saying, from far away it sounds like, “I’m sorry, Jon, I didn’t mean -”

“No, ah, I’m sorry,” Jon stammers quickly. “I’m. It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m just…” he struggles to say this, he can feel himself overheating with embarrassment. A grown man who cries when someone touches his face,  _ fuck’s sake _ . He can’t stand it, but much more than that he knows he can’t bear it if he runs away from Martin right now, he has to keep himself here. He has to say it. “Martin, I. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that, everything that’s… that’s touched me lately, or ever really, has… has hurt.”

“Oh, Jon.” There’s no pity, and Jon is grateful for it. Martin looks at him with so much warmth and love but not pity, like he  _ understands _ , and Jon wants so badly to be held, he  _ wants _ so deeply. At first, Martin seems unsure of himself, and Jon thinks, yeah, when your comfort instinct is to touch people and someone says touch  _ hurts _ them, you would hesitate. But he’s already leaning into Martin now, letting the contact sizzle for a second before it softens.

And then, now, Martin is all around him, warm and big and pliant and strong, and Jon is weeping into his shirt. It’s like trying to open the door just a crack, watching the full weight of the ocean come crashing through. He has started to sob and now he cannot bar its tide.

“Jon, Jon,” says Martin, just murmurs his name again and again like a soothing mantra. Was this it, what it was supposed to be like to be held? Jon had never let himself ask for such a thing. He’s starting to calm down when he feels Martin’s lips pressing against his hair for a second, then his thumb tracing Jon’s tear tracks. Martin pulls back just enough to look down at him.

“This shouldn’t hurt,” he says so softly then. He hesitates, and Jon hopes that the way he looks back at Martin, eyes open and attentive, urges him on. It seems to be enough, because Martin continues. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I mean it, I just, I thought. God, Jon. You… you should only be touched with  _ love _ . You should only be touched how you want.”

Jon nods. It’s been a long, long time of not even really considering his own… bodily autonomy. How many monsters have left their mark on his skin, or under it? Making him a little more  _ them _ under the years, chipping away at his sense of self? He was never good at dealing with pain. He was never brave in the face of physical violence, and after so much of it he’s still so  _ scared _ of it.

He feels the ways Martin’s marked him as well, feels them with a sensitivity that does not hold with any of his other marks, all the layers of scar tissue. This is so much softer, unbearably painful in such a different way, that it’s almost exquisitely delightful. How his face burns, with embarrassment or amusement or overwhelming fondness. How he’s, well, not  _ quick _ to smile but certainly quicker than he’s ever been, face muscles slowly growing accustomed to a practice they had avoided for so long. How empty his hands are, wanting for Martin so desperately that now, he lets them  _ have _ Martin, lets himself reach up and cup his palms to Martin’s face and feel the furnace of warmth there. How dark his fingertips look against Martin’s paler complexion, how lovely the freckles splashed there and he could just trace the constellations between them. Martin’s eyes flutter down and those lashes catch the light and Jon’s gut  _ twists _ with want.

“I do want this,” he says, realizing he should probably clarify that. “You. How you touch me. It feels nice. When I flinched, it was just a reaction, to, you know,” he gestures vaguely, “literally everything else. Not to you.”

Martin flushes at that, and Jon worries he’s embarrassed now. Perhaps he made too big a deal out of a small thing or, oh god, misinterpreted - “Sorry, I mean,” he struggles, all pretence of confidence thrown out, “like, I’m okay. If you, ah, if you want to touch me. I do like it. But I know that we, that what you said in the Lonely doesn’t necessarily, uh, mean you currently feel - it doesn’t matter, if, if you don’t want to it’s fine, and I know the situation is well, not ideal but there’s no pressure to, to do anything you don’t want, and its notabigdealreally -”

“Jon, Jon, please,” Martin cuts him off. “Ah. Sorry. I’m trying to think.”

Okay. Okay, Jon can wait, he can contain himself. For Martin.

“It is a big deal,” says Martin finally. He goes slow and deliberate, and Jon tries not to feel like his words are a fragile lifeline. “I just, I would like to say that the things you have been through are in fact a big deal. And you are, you know, allowed to have a hard time with it. I just want you to know, that I…” 

He’s flushing again, deeper now, and something clicks in Jon’s awareness. It’s not a flush of, of, awkwardness over some faux pas, or, of finding himself trapped with an overly-affectionate employer, it’s…  _ oh. _ Martin always looks up and away, whenever he needs to say something he’s afraid of, like exposing one’s soul is hard enough without the addition of eye contact. He does it now, looks away and back and away again and his brows pull down in concentration, and Jon has spent so long trying to memorize this gorgeous man and he’s  _ still _ so blind, probably willfully so, to not realize the depths of Martin’s feelings -

“I do love you, Jon. I know what I said in the Lonely and how it sounded, but I, you have to understand, I was so far away then, I don’t think I could feel anything - but  _ you _ were there, and I saw you, and, and I had a reason to feel everything again, I love you,  _ immensely, _ really. And for me, that means I want to hold you when I see you hurt but, I don’t have to -”

Jon doesn’t think, just yanks Martin into the tightest hug he’s ever given. He doesn’t want to kiss Martin on the mouth right now - well, that’s incorrect, he very much  _ does _ , but more than that he doesn’t want to interrupt Martin, Martin who  _ loves _ him Martin who is  _ in love  _ with _ him  _ Jonathan Sims _ Head Archivist of the Magnus _ \- Martin keeps going, babbling into Jon’s shoulder, and Jon just swells with fondness and holds onto him.

“ - always loved you, from the beginning probably, or, I mean, I knew I was  _ going _ to from the beginning, you were a bit of a prick back then actually - ”

“Yes, yes,” says Jon, and he doesn’t know if he’s laughing or crying now, but it feels like the ocean is emptying out of him and he is going to be exhausted  _ very _ soon but right now he is  _ elated _ .

Fingers threading through Jon’s hair, Martin presses his forehead to Jon’s, and they breathe the same air in deep, slowly steadying breaths. “Jon,” says Martin, very purposefully. “You know that you get to decide how you are touched, and, it’s not, I mean, you’re not going to push me away by stating your boundaries, you know?”

Jon’s throat closes around something big and awful, threatening to choke him, but he makes it through it and nods. “Yeah. Yeah I know.” He also knows that knowing and believing are rarely the same thing, but, but it is worth it to try.

After so much, he’s starting to feel a little nonverbal now. He’s hidden behind words his entire life and they are still so  _ damn _ difficult. So instead, he reaches up to wipe Martin’s tears, pushing up now on his toes to kiss Martin’s face. Slow and soft, just close-mouthed presses to cheeks and nose and chin and, carefully removing Martin’s glasses, now kisses his eyelids. Quite a few times he comes close to Martin’s mouth but he thinks, savor it, for once in your life you have  _ time _ . Martin has ample time to pull away from the shower of kisses, but he doesn’t, only keeps his eyes closed for a long moment and runs his thumb in small circles at Jon’s nape.

“I really love you too, you know,” says Jon. He wants to tell Martin everything, but he can’t get the words up his throat right now - he’ll tell him, soon, they’ll be sitting at the table or holding each other on the couch or walking to see the cows and he’ll  _ tell _ Martin about every little moment he fell in love with him. Right now, he feels like he’s just learning to breathe, like it’s the first time in his life there hasn’t been a heavy weight on his lungs.

“Yeah, well, heh,” huffs Martin, feigning exasperation. He pulls Jon closer, palms sliding behind his neck, his nails scratch along Jon’s scalp in a deeply pleasant way and his warm breath beats softly against Jon’s face. “Cool.”

“ _ Cool _ ,” mocks Jon, gently. Noses Martin’s face, softly but insistently, begging for a thousand tiny physical assurances he’s never allowed himself to seek before and Martin meets him for all of them. And probably, they look ridiculous. It’s nine in the morning and they are standing next to the sink, quietly crying and stroking each other’s faces and yeah, it’s a lot. But Martin kisses his face back and then, when he kisses the corner of Jon’s mouth, he does it like a question. Jon answers with a tilt of his head, he barely has to turn before his mouth is on Martin’s, slow and chaste until it is  _ not _ .

_ Martin  _ he’s kissing  _ Martin _ in  _ real life _ , kissing him proper and losing his own mind a little. Martin tastes like black tea and bergamot and toothpaste and tongue, and the last of Jon’s composure unravels, he drinks it all in and loses himself,  _ love you love you love you love you _ . Martin’s grip tightens in Jon’s hair, and for a second Jon thinks he’s dragged a deliciously desperate sound from Martin’s throat before he realizes  _ he’s _ the one that groaned.

Jon pulls treacherously away for a second, on fire with embarrassment now. Martin tries to chase his mouth but he can’t kiss him properly because his own mouth has split into the dopiest grin Jon has seen in probably his entire life. Adorable, it’s adorable, and Jon tells him so. “You’re adorable,” he says so simply. He’s allowed to just say that now. Ridiculous.

“Me?” Martin laughs. “Christ, Jon, look at you. J-just so you know, I am never going to stop kissing you.” He says this like it’s a dire warning, and Jon just laughs into him and lets himself be kissed again. It’s entirely possible that he’s still crying, but Martin has the tact not to point it out.

Later, Martin makes new cups of tea.

**Author's Note:**

> it's my emotional support archivist and i'll project what i want to  
> anyway s5 has been a lot and i'm scared for the ending so let's pretend everything's fine!!  
> pls pls leave a comment and let me know what you think <33


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